


Child of Fire

by Masked_Man_2



Category: Tintenwelt-Trilogie | Inkheart Trilogy - Cornelia Funke
Genre: Adventure, Family, Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2097990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Man_2/pseuds/Masked_Man_2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After saving the life of a young orphan boy, Dustfinger takes him on as his apprentice. Together, they travel the Inkworld, going wherever the wind blows them, until the very end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an AU, set about 13 years before the start of Inkheart (ergo, in the Inkworld).

In the light of the early evening, the Wayless Wood was alive with sound. Fairies and birds flitted through the great trees, and night-roaming creatures awoke from their daily slumber, slinking through the undergrowth in search of a meal.

 

Any traveler passing through the wood would have seen it for what it was: a wild place, beautiful in its chaos. If they’d looked closer, however they would’ve seen a sight that seemed not to belong within the wildness of the wood.

 

A group of boys was stood huddled behind a tree, staring intently at a buzzing nest of fire-elves. They were of the Motley Folk, those wandering players who performed all over Lombrica and Argenta. Their troupe was currently camped at a stream, miles away from where they were. These boys were alone, with their own mischief as company.

 

“Get closer to it, Miya. Four steps,” commanded the oldest of the boys. Cardenio was his name, and among the younger members of their troupe, he was the leader. Confident and accustomed to giving orders, his word was law; if Cardenio asked you to something.

 

Miya, his current target, didn’t know that yet. He was a newcomer; no one seemed to know where he was from. Some thought that he hailed from over the mountains, and indeed, he certainly had the exotic looks to suggest that.

His black hair was wavy and fell to his waist, and his skin was the color of new copper. His features and build were delicate and cat-like; perhaps he had some fairy ancestry. His eyes were by far his most unnerving feature; they were slanted, wide, and the color of water. Right now, they looked into the brown eyes of Cardenio with abject terror.

 

“But...I can’t….”

“Are you afraid, Miya?” Cardenio smirked, brushing his dark hair out of his face. “Are you too much of a coward to get closer?”

“Leave him alone. Just because he doesn’t want to go near the elves doesn’t make him a coward,” said the last boy, Jonras. 

Among the players, he was renowned as a dancer and a singer, and was shockingly handsome to boot. His chestnut hair was wavy and long, and his features were sharp and perfectly balanced. His eyes were greenish gold, with flecks of blue and brown, and he had the slender, wiry build of an acrobat. 

He crossed his lanky arms and glared at Cardenio. The older boy raised an eyebrow in return.

 

“He is a coward, though,” he said nonchalantly, “for he’s got nothing to lose, and he still won’t go.

“Anyway,” he added, turning back to Miya, “You don’t have to touch it, just get close to it.”

“But the elves will see me!” the foreigner cired. “I will be burned!”

“SHH!” The other boys turned to Miya angrily. “Fool,” Cardenio hissed. “We’ll all be burned if you don’t keep your voice down!”

“Sorry.”

 

X X X

 

As Cardenio, Jonras, and Miya talked, another boy watched them from behind a different tree with envy in his blue eyes. Dionisio tucked his reddish-brown curls behind his ears and sighed. How he wished the others would see him, ask him to join them! But that would never happen. 

 

He had been found by the Motley Folk two years ago, starving and half-dead, grieving for his parents, who had died in the Adderhead’s dungeons. The players had taken him in, fed him, and gave him a place to spend the night. When they discovered his penchant for juggling, they had let him stay.

 

Still, even though he had a place to consider ‘home,’ it wasn’t a happy one. Being the youngest of the boys, he was often left out of the others’ games. He was small, weak, and shy: useless in their eyes. Even the adults barely talked to him. In fact, just this morning, Cardenio had told him something that had made his heart break….

 

X X X

 

“Can I come with you to the nest? Oh, please, Cardenio?” Dionisio begged. The older boy rolled his eyes.

“Dionisio, I would love to say yes. Really, I would. It’s just that...well, the nest is a long way away. You wouldn’t be able to keep up with us.”

“But I would! I’m just as strong as the rest of you!”

“Now, that’s not true, and you know it,” he replied caustically. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Perhaps if we go somewhere closer next time, you can come with us.”

“But-”

“Look,” Cardenio snapped, losing his patience. “If we wanted you with us, we’d let you come. Truth is, you’ll just slow us down. Just stay here, Dionisio. Find something you can do.”

 

X X X

 

Those words made the young boy’s heart burn. That the others didn’t want him...it killed him. He could do anything they could; why could they not see that? 

Hell with this, he thought, straightening his shoulders. I’ll show them.

 

“I’ll go,” he called, loud enough for the others to hear. “I’ll go to the nest.”

 

Cardenio whirled around, his eyes widening. “What are you doing here?!”

“I followed you,” Dionisio said, pride coloring his words. “And I can go to the nest, too, just you wait!”

“You wouldn’t make it two steps,” he replied derisively, recovering his composure.

“I can, and I will! Just watch!”

“Dionisio, wait!” Jonras cried. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

 

Dionisio ignored their shouts. Slowly, he stepped out from behind the tree, and walked toward the nest with his head held high. The sounds of the others faded into the background, and the buzzing of the elves seemed magnified.

 

“We have to stop him!” Jonras grabbed the sleeve of Cardenio’s tunic, his eyes wild. “We can’t just let him go!”

“If we go, we could get hurt, too,” Cardenio said, but his fear was plain in his eyes. “The elves haven’t seen him yet, and he’s not going to touch the nest.”

“How do you know that?” Tears were streaming down the singer’s face. “I heard what you said to him earlier! He’ll do anything to prove himself to you! Anything!” 

 

Cardenio frowned, and his mouth dropped open when he realized that Jonras was right. Heavens above, what have I done? he thought. He bit his lip. “Dionisio, come back!” he shouted. “For Heaven’s sake, just come back!”

 

Dionisio didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he turned, with a triumphant grin on his face. “See?” he called. “I made it!”

“Watch out!” Miya cried suddenly. Everyone looked up sharply, and froze where they stood. 

 

The elves were swarming out of their nest, making a beeline for Dionisio. Jonras closed his eyes.

“Run! Get away from them!” Cardenio shouted. Dionisio, however, didn’t move.

“I-I can’t….”

“You fool! RUN!”

 

With a collective hiss, the elves flew at the young boy, smothering him and shielding him from view. Dionisio covered his face and fell to the ground, screaming in pain. It was fire, knives, ice! And he couldn’t escape!

 

Suddenly, one of the elves began flying towards the tress that the other boys were hiding behind. Miya, upon sighting the small creature, gasped.

“The elves see us!”

Cardenio squeezed his eyes closed. “Back away,” he whispered. “We still have time to escape from it.”

“Right! We run, and do what? Leave Dionisio here, where he’ll almost certainly die, while we might get away scot-free? That’s your plan, O Brave One?” Jonras’s words positively dripped with venom. Cardenio felt his blood boil.

“Yes!” he exploded. “Yes, that’s my plan! Would you rather all of us die, as opposed to only one?”

“He’s one of us!” Jonras yelled back. “We might as well have killed him ourselves if we leave him here! Is that what you want? To be known as a murderer?!”

“If it means getting out of here alive, then yes, I am willing to risk it! Now GO!”

 

The elf was almost a foot away from them now, and more were starting to follow. Without a word, the three turned and ran, crashing blindly through the undergrowth. They ran all the way back to their camp without pause, and collapsed on their knees by the cook-fire. The strolling players began crowding around, asking what had happened, what was wrong.

 

As Jonras and Miya told the story, Cardenio wandered numbly to the edge of the wood. He stood there staring out into the trees until the last of the sun’s rays faded away. Enveloped in darkness, he bent his head. 

I’m sorry, Dionisio. And tears began to fall from his eyes, tears that were swallowed up by this night that was hungry for his sorrow.

 

X X X 

 

Time lost all meaning. Perhaps he was in the clearing for days, or perhaps it had been mere minutes. All he knew was pain: terrible, all-consuming pain. And it just kept coming.

He was barely conscious now. Is this how I’m going to die, then? he wondered. Will I be forgotten, just a burned husk and a memory in the minds of some? His eyes slid closed. He could feel blackness threatening to overtake him...it was so warm...so peaceful….

 

“Hmm….” The darkness cracked and broke, disappearing like fog in the sun. The strange humming sound floated into the clearing, and the fire-elves stilled in their frenzy to listen.

Through a haze of pain, Dionisio watched as a figure stalked in through the bushes, clothed in red and black, like a demon. It kept humming: a low, hoarse note that, to the boy’s fevered ears, made a music as sweet as that of the angels. He felt his pain lessen, as though that heavenly voice melted the fire with its own.

The elves, too, were soothed by the sound, and they began to fly drowsily back to their nest. The black-and-red figure, still humming, knelt beside Dionisio, and rested a hand that felt as hot and rough as fire on his forehead. 

Suddenly, a floating sensation overtook him, and his scorched lips parted in a gasp. The world began to move, and Dionisio realized that the figure was walking away. 

 

“Shh,” it whispered. “You’re safe now. Save your strength. I’m trying to help you.” Dionisio tried to respond, but all that came out was a faint croak. “What did I just say?” his saviour admonished gently. “Quiet now, and rest.”

 

Rest...that sounded like a dream….Dionisio felt pain everywhere, and he was so tired…

The darkness crept up on him again, and he slipped into its comforting embrace without a second thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conscience hurts. Let's end it at that.

The world was dark and cold, as though it had been plunged into a pool of shadow. It was a nothing, a void: no movement, no sight, no sound. All he knew was the soft blackness, and a vague prickling sensation.

 

Was this death?...But one did not feel in death, and he could feel; he could feel that little prickling, like a thousand tiny needles piercing his skin. The place was too dark to be Heaven, too peaceful to be Hell...and needles did not exist in Death.

 

So...what was this? Whatever it is, Dionisio thought dreamily, I like it. He wanted to stay here, but where was here? How had he gotten here? He couldn’t remember….Think, he told himself, but the words wouldn’t come. The blackness was too complete; it sucked all thought away….

 

The prickling brought him back to himself. The sensation was growing stronger, and Dionisio could feel something that he distantly recognized as pain. The needles burn now, he thought clinically, but then one jabbed into where his brain was supposed to be, and he gasped. The air- yes, it must have been air, for darkness could not be inhaled- set his sluggish lungs on fire, and he became painfully aware of his heartbeat. He could hear a high, faraway keening, like a wounded animal’s scream, and dimly he realized that the sound came from him. A fiery pain suddenly exploded within him, and he opened his burning eyes and screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

 

X X X 

 

“Easy. You’ve been badly hurt; you’ve got to lie still.” The voice came seemingly out of nowhere, a low, hoarse voice, colored with a faint brogue. Instinctively, Dionisio turned towards it, whimpering when the stinging pain in his body flared up again.

“Lie still.” The voice went silent for a few moments, and Dionisio closed his eyes again. He couldn’t see anything, anyway; they burned too much. 

 

Suddenly, something touched him, some icy cold paste, stabbing shards of ice through his burning skin.

 

“Ah-” he gasped. “T-take...it...off….” His throat was ripped to shreds; it hurt to speak.

“Stop struggling,” his invisible companion said irritably. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You-you’re...free-freezing...my...skin….”

“It’s a healing salve. It feels cold like that because you’ve been burned.”

“B-burned?”

The invisible figure sighed. “Yes. Now brace yourself, if you can. This is going to hurt.”

 

Hurt was an understatement. The fire that was Dionisio’s skin fought bitterly with the ice of the salve, and he felt like he was getting burned all over again. He couldn’t hold back his cries of agony, but his companion ignored the sounds, callously continuing to apply the cold paste. Then, at last, the fire stopped spreading, and Dionisio breathed out a sigh of relief. Something warm touched his scorched lips: warm, wet, and smelling of herbs.

 

“Drink this,” the voice said softly. Dionisio drank gratefully, the liquid soothing his stinging throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly his tongue felt leaden, and a warm drowsiness flooded into his body. He couldn’t fight it...he didn’t want to. So he let himself fall into blackness once more.

 

X X X 

 

When he woke, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, and for a moment, he thought he was back at camp. What woke me? he wondered. Why was I asleep? 

 

The memories came back in spurts: the boys in the wood, the fire-elves, the black-and-red demon, the voice with the salve, and the draught that had sent him into slumber. 

 

Wincing, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, then sat up fully. His body still stung, but the pain wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it had been earlier. He could see the raised, red welts through the holes that had been burned in his clothes. He touched one carefully, gasping at the pain it caused.

 

“About time you woke up. I was beginning to worry.” Dionisio glanced up when the voice spoke; it was the same one as before. The man it belonged to was facing away from him, turned towards a pot that boiled over a small fire. 

“Who are you? Where am I?” Dionisio asked, pleased to note that his voice sounded almost normal. 

The man stirred something inside the pot with a stick. “You’re in the Wayless Wood,” he said, “though I expect you already knew that. You’ve been asleep for almost twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours?” Dionisio croaked. Awkwardly, he crawled over to the man, biting his lip to keep back a whimper of pain. “That long?”

“Does that surprise you?” the man asked nonchalantly.

Dionisio frowned. “A bit….”

“It shouldn’t. Those elves got you good...well, bad, actually. You were half dead when I found you.”

“I was?” Dionisio felt sluggish, confused, like the elves had burned his mind along with his body. He didn’t like the feeling at all.

The man didn’t reply, just nodded abstractedly. Dionisio moved a bit closer to him, wishing he would turn and show his face. “Who are you?” he asked again. “You still haven’t told me that. What’s your name?”

Finally, the man did turn, regarding Dionisio with an amused stare “I’ll give you three guesses. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

 

Dionisio caught his lower lip between his teeth as he studied his companion. The man was wearing the garments of a fire-eater: red-trimmed black doublet, red hose, black boots, and a dark red cloak with a simple iron clasp. 

His hair was a pale, sandy ginger, falling and curling freely to his shoulders, and his skin was tanned from the sun. His features were sharp; he might have been handsome but for the three pale scars that were carved into his cheeks. He was rangy and lean, rather tall, and the fingers that were deftly twirling the stirring-stick were long and thin.

His eyes, though, were unnerving. Wide-set and slightly narrow, they were a strange, shifting, bluish-gray color that reminded Dionisio of a stormy sea. The dark shadows beneath them only added to their unsettling appearance. 

 

Dionisio frowned. There was something familiar about this scarred man; he felt like he should know who he was...but he’d never seen the man before in his life. Finally, he shook his head.

 

“I give up,” he admitted. “I have no idea who are.”

“I’m not altogether surprised,” the man replied. “Why don’t you tell me your name, boy, and I’ll return the favor.”

“All right,” he said with a shrug. “I’m Dionisio of the Motley Folk.”

“Dionisio of the Motley Folk,” the man repeated. “Distinguished name, that. I am of the Motley Folk myself. My name is Dustfinger.”

“Dustfinger?” Dionisio exclaimed incredulously. “The Fire-Dancer?”

Dustfinger stood and made him a mock bow. “Some call me that, yes.”

 

Dionisio sat back in shock as Dustfinger bent to stir the pot again. The Fire-Dancer! He had been saved by the Fire-Dancer! Dionisio had grown up hearing stories about this man and his skill. How he spoke to the flames like a lover. How he could light the sky with a whisper. How he danced with no semblance of fear. 

 

How was it possible that he, Dionisio, was here with this man, this legend? Bemusedly, he shook his head. This couldn’t have been a coincidence. Some divine hand had pushed them together...but to what end?

 

“There’s some soup here if you feel up to eating,” Dustfinger said, cutting into Dionisio’s musings. “Do you want any?” 

Dionisio considered. the smell coming from the pot was heavenly to his empty stomach. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten...a day or two ago, at least. “All right,” he replied, straightening.

The fire-eater reached into a battered backpack that had been lying on the ground behind him, and gently removed a small wooden bowl, which he dipped into the pot. “Here,” he said, handing the bowl to Dionisio. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thank you.” The boy held the bowl to his lips and took a cautious sip. The soup was indeed hot, and thin, too, tasting strongly of herbs and a gamey meat. “It’s good,” he remarked, smiling slightly.

Dustfinger raised his eyebrows. “I assumed you were feeling better,” he said, sounding faintly perturbed.

Dionisio frowned. “I am, really! Why would you think I wasn’t?”

“Well, most people in sound health don’t refer to my cooking as ‘good.’ It’s been known to cause severe bodily harm.”

“WHAT?!” Startled, Dionisio choked on his mouthful of soup and almost dropped the bowl.

“Relax.” Dustfinger smiled slightly, clearly amused. “I’m joking. I’ve never poisoned anyone yet.”

“Oh.” Dionisio glanced down at the ground, feeling his face burn with embarrassment. “You lied, then.”

“No, I simply exaggerated my lack of culinary skill.”

“So….” Dionisio wasn’t sure what to make of this. “I was stupid for believing you, then.”

“You’re not at all stupid.” then, Dustfinger paused. “Well...not entirely, perhaps. Walking right up to a nest of angry fire-elves was….”

“A very, very bad idea,” Dionisio finished abashedly.

“Right.” The older man sat down, studying the boy intently. “If I may be so bold as to question you after that little misunderstanding….”

“You may.”

“Thank you. How old are you? Younger than those boys you were with yesterday, I imagine.”

Of all the questions the man could have asked, Dionisio hadn’t expected that one. “I’m nine,” he said. 

Dustfinger nodded, but he didn’t reply. He seemed to be thinking hard.

“What about you?” Dionisio asked nervously. “How old are you?”

“Me? I’m twenty.”

“Really?” Incredulous, Dionisio stared at the tired-looking man before him and shook his head. “You don’t look twenty.”

Dustfinger sighed, running a hand through his long hair. “I know.”

“It’s not that you look old,” the boy was quick to add, afraid of offending the man. “You just...look...worn, is all.”

“Really?” Dustfinger deadpanned. “How thoughtful of you to notice.”

Dionisio looked down again, his ears reddening. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dustfinger said perfunctorily. As an afterthought, he added, “You might want to finish that before it gets cold,” indicating Dionisio’s soup.

 

X X X 

 

Dionisio ate quickly, the hot liquid stinging his mouth. Trying to be discreet (for the Fire-Dancer’s temperament seemed as unpredictable and mutable as quicksilver), he stared at the man over the top of his bowl, eyes wide with awe.

 

The man had brought a hand to his lips. Rubbing his long fingers together gently, he whispered: stranger, foreign words that the boy could barely hear. Almost immediately, sparks fell from his hand, twisting into wonderful shapes as they floated toward the ground. There were flowers, birds, mystical forest creatures, and other things that Dionisio couldn’t put a name to.

 

The crackling of the flames seemed to tell a story, an ancient, worldly story of times and places unguessable. Dionisio listened, and wished to heaven and back that he could understand, that he, too, could speak with a tongue of fire and sing a song of sparks. The flames seemed to whisper to him, promising love, adventure, and freedom….

 

A sudden harsh cough broke through the seductive whispers of the flames, making Dionisio jump. To his surprise, Dustfinger was doubled over on his knees, a hand pressed to his chest as he coughed. For a wild moment, Dionisio wondered if he’d swallowed one of his sparks...but that wouldn’t have bothered him so. Not the Fire-Dancer.

 

“Are you alright?” the boy asked worriedly. “What...what’s wrong?”

Dustfinger shook his head and turned away, unable to speak. He sounded like he was choking, and his face was turning red.

Frightened, Dionisio knelt beside him and hit him hard on the back, the way his father used to do. “Is...is that….”

“Get...the...hell...off...me…” Dustfinger rasped out, cutting himself off with his coughs.

“Oh, sorry, sorry! Oh, no, I’m making it worse, aren’t I? Oh, no….” Dionisio trailed off, at an absolute loss. Surely if Dustfinger could talk, it was a good sign? But he was showing no signs of stopping, and Dionisio was terrified now. “What can I do?”

“Wa...ter….”

“Right!” Dionisio could have hit himself. He was so stupid! “Where is it?”

“Pack….” Suddenly, Dustfinger spit something onto the ground before him, somthing tinged with red. “Ah, damn….”

Blood. It was blood, it had to be. Dionisio stared at it in horror. ‘Damn’ was right. He picked up the bag, flinching when something moved inside it, making an angry chittering sound.

“Hush...Gwin….” With shaking hands, Dustfinger took the bag, pulled out a waterskin, and drank deeply, splashing water on himself as he trembled.

“Don’t choke…” Dionisio whispered. “Please don’t.” He was frightened enough already.

 

To his relief, though, the man’s coughing fit soon subsided. Spent, he put the waterskin back in the bag and sat up, running his hands over his face.

“Are you alright now?” Dionisio asked timidly. “You scared me half to death!”

“I’ll be fine.” Dustfinger gave Dionisio a long look. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied. As he spoke, the creature in the bag chattered again. With slight trepidation, Dionisio pointed to it. “Um...what’s in there?”

Dustfinger managed a weak half-smile and reached into the backpack. “This is Gwin,” he said hoarsely. “I wouldn’t touch him, though. He has a nasty bite when he’s disturbed.”

 

The creature that the fire-eater pulled out was small, no bigger than a kitten. It was dark brown, with a white bib on its chest and a long, slender body. It looked rather like a weasel, but more delicate, and tiny horns could be seen atop his head. It squirmed, as though uncomfortable with being held, and casually turned its head and bit Dustfinger’s hand.

 

“Bugger,” he muttered, making Dionisio giggle. With a sigh, he put Gwin back in the bag.

“What sort of animal is he?” Dionisio asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

“A marten.” Dustfinger took a large gourd out of his backpack and emptied the pot into it.

“How old is he? He’s so small.”

“Several months old.”

Dionisio frowned. “He’s just a baby, then. Does he hunt?”

“Only me.”

Dionisio stared at Dustfinger for a moment, then began to laugh again. From the backpack, Gwin huffed, as though he, too, was amused.

 

Dustfinger smiled, but almost immediately, another cough shook him, and Dionisio shot him a concerned glance. 

“Are you going to...is this going to be bad?” he asked. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened earlier. 

“No….” Dustfinger paused for a moment and sighed. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

Dionisio looked at him, long and hard. His face was still slightly red, the shadows under his eyes seemed darker, and he looked even more tired than before. He didn’t exactly look ill...but he didn’t really look well, either. “I don’t believe you,” he said firmly.

Dustfinger lowered his head into his hands. “Believe what you want.”

 

X X X 

 

That shut the boy up, thank the stars. That wretched pounding behind his eyes was starting again, and the boy’s incessant questioning wasn’t helping matters in the least. Dustfinger didn’t really like lying to the boy, but it had to be done.

 

Why should that bother you, anyway? he berated himself. You lie all the time, even to your friends. Besides, this is your own damn fault.

 

It really was, too. If he had been paying more attention to his surroundings last week, he would have seen the patrol of fire-raisers lying in wait for him...but he hadn’t. they had caught him, tried to force him to join them, and teach them the secrets of the fire: the usual plea. Basta must have been angrier than usual that day, though, because when Dustfinger had stoically refused his demands, he had ordered Flatnose to throw the fire-eater into the Shivering Stream. It was aptly named; even though it was summer, the stream was deep as a river and shockingly cold.

 

When Dustfinger had pulled himself out, the fire-raisers were long gone, no doubt back to their skulking fortress. The next day, Dustfinger had started to make his way out of the wood, but the illness had overtaken him quickly: terrible pains in his chest and head, spells of intense coughing, and a fever that had rendered him unconscious and delirious for four days, so the fairies said. If they hadn’t found him...he dreaded to think what might have happened.

 

No use dwelling on that, he thought. You were careless, you paid the price, and it’s over. Concentrate on the task at hand. 

 

That task being the boy, of course. The fairy-magic had saved him, too. The little blue creatures had been the ones to give Dustfinger the salve he’d used for the boy’s burns, and they had healed remarkably quickly. He was already fit enough to walk.

 

Just as well, that. His parents, or his troupe, were likely off somewhere, camping or playing, worrying about the young lad they’d lost. He needed to go back to them, where he belonged.

 

“Dionisio,” he said, making the boy jump again. Heavens above, he was excitable. “Where are the players you’re traveling with camped?”

“Why do you want to know?” the boy asked, his tone suddenly guarded.

“Likely they’re worried about you,” Dustfinger replied, unruffled. “You’ve been away long enough. You need to go back.” He felt a twinge of guilt as he spoke. He was one to talk; he hadn’t seen his wife and daughter for seven weeks...again. But he kept the thought hidden.

Meanwhile, Dionisio was staring at the ground, his small fingers tracing invisible patterns in the leaves. “They’re not worried,” he muttered. “They probably think I’m dead. Besides, even if I did go back, they wouldn’t care.”

“Really?” Dustfinger kept his tone neutral, unassuming. “Why not?”

Dionisio shrugged. “They don’t like me. They think I’m weak.”

“Is that so?”

The boy nodded glumly. “Uh-huh.”

 

Dustfinger cast a critical eye on the boy. His bright blue eyes held a sort of shaded sadness that was reminiscent of an abused puppy, and his longish curls framed his small face, making him look vulnerable, younger than he was. He was small, to be sure, and slight, but he didn’t look weak. At any rate, anyone who could survive the number of elf-burns that boy now sported, even with the help of fairy-medicine, had an admirable strength.

 

“Their loss for thinking that,” he remarked. “You’re stronger than you look.”

Dionisio’s eyes lit up. “Do you really think that?”

“I do.” Dustfinger sighed softly. “All the same, I really do need to take you back. Heaven knows I can’t let you wander out here by yourself.”

 

Immediately, the boy’s face fell, and Dustfinger felt another stab of guilt. Stop that, he told himself angrily. The boy is nothing to you! Why are you feeling bad for him?...Because he’s lonely, he realized. He has no one...STOP! Enough. You’re taking him back where he belongs.

 

“All right,” he said, more harshly than was his wont. “Tell me where your troupe is camped.”

“By a stream,” the boy whispered. “The Minnow Stream.”

Dustfinger glanced at the sky. The Minnow Stream was about half a day’s walk from here at a brisk pace, and it was starting to get dark. “It’s too late to go now,” he mused. “If we leave at first light tomorrow, we might be able to get to the camp by noon. It’d be best to stay here until then. One more night away won’t do much harm.”

“It won’t do any harm,” Dionisio grumbled.

“Watch what you say,” Dustfinger told him sharply. “They care for you more than you realize.”

“No, they don’t.” Now the boy sounded tired and small, like the child he was.

Dustfinger sighed wearily. “Get some rest,” he said, trying to make his voice more gentle. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

 

The boy said nothing, but instead lay down gingerly, mindful of his still-healing burns. Soon, his breathing became long and deep as sleep pulled him into its soft embrace. Dustfinger undid the clasp on his cloak and draped the rough material over the boy, who snuggled into the warmth. Then, feeling a sudden- though not unexpected-exhaustion, he, too, lay back, pulling his pack to his side. 

 

The rising moon cast a dappled light onto his scarred face as he closed his eyes in thought. The issue of the boy was starting to become troublesome. Dustfinger knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the boy had to be brought back to his troupe. On the other hand, Dionisio had seemed completely serious about the others’ contempt for him. He truly didn’t want to go back.

 

But he had to! After all, where else could he go? To the Black Prince? Another group of players?

 

He could come with you, the insidious little voice of his conscience whispered. He seems curious about the fire, and he seems to like you...well, he doesn’t hate you, and that’s about the best you can hope for. You could take him on as an apprentice.

Curious isn’t good enough, he retorted. Besides, I can’t do that. I can’t mind a boy. 

But you feel for him, the voice insisted. You feel his pain. 

That doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.

But you can!

 

Thoroughly aggravated, Dustfinger growled and put his hands over his ears. Damn his conscience! By fire and fairies, he couldn’t just take the boy! It wasn’t right. At any rate, there was no telling whether the boy would even agree if he offered. Probably he wouldn’t. The better for him. Dustfinger’s only companion during his sequestered wanderings was Gwin, who was too young to care for himself.

 

So’s the boy. So, his conscience was back, was it. Damn it to Hell and back. You shouldn’t swear. What sort of role model does that make you?

SHUT UP! The force of Dustfinger’s internal shout made his head throb. Mercifully, though, his conscience obeyed.

Arguing with oneself was tiring work. Dustfinger rolled onto his side, resolving not to think of Dionisio until morning. But his doubts kept creeping back, silent as the rising of the moon but stinging like nettles, and he lay awake in the pain of them all night.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on ages:
> 
> Cardenio: 13  
> Miya: 12  
> Jonras: 11  
> Dionisio: 9


End file.
